


Illusion of Safety

by orphan_account



Category: Muse (Band), Zombieland (2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, Crossover, Gen, Longfic (idk kinda), Mild Gore, Zombies, matt is a dumb bitch, mild belldom but not enough to be in the relationship tag, writersofcydonia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:46:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24939268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Muse x Zombieland crossover. Challenge submission for Writers of Cydonia, so it's notexactlylike the film. Have fun uwu
Comments: 6
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [writersofcydonia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/writersofcydonia/gifts).



> Matt's POV for the whole thing, and yeah, that's a Hoosiers reference in the title. Have fun

_Do you remember the good old days before the ghost town?_

—

Los Angeles, California.

That’s where I’m headed in this wasteland, and yeah, it’s as bland and cliche as saying I was headed to Las Vegas. I can assure you that I am not even close to that glorious place at the minute. I should’ve known as soon as I set foot in the United States as a nervous, skeptical English that it was not gonna go well. Didn’t expect to be thrown into _Shaun of the Dead_ upon arrival, though. 

You might be surprised that I’m not a maggot infested bag of flesh. Why am I alive when everyone around me has turned to meat? It’s because of an imaginary list of rules I've got. If it means surviving, I don't care if they seem somewhat outrageous.

Around and around this dimly lit parking lot, I’m running from a noisy, grumbly zombie pal who is chasing their next meal. That meal being me (I must admit, there’s not a lot of meat on my bones, so I doubt they’d be too satisfied with me), a tiny, timid, shotgun-wielding guy with the squeakiest latex jacket in the world and red pants that make me stick out like a sore thumb. 

The thing’s only chasing me because it burst out from a restroom. It’s with great pleasure that I can say it was fully clothed, but anyway, as soon as that fucker came out with their yellowish eyes, blood stained _everything_ and the ugliest sounds I’d ever heard, I knew I had to book it in the other direction.

_Bam!_

I took a wild and frantic shot at another zombie that appeared from the gas pumps, just out of fucking thin air or something. They sure like to play peekaboo, and if I said it wasn’t terrifying, I’d be lying.

Rule number one: Cardio.

We’re like _Wile E. Coyote_ and the _Road Runner_ out there, and I swear it felt like running a whole marathon before I made it to my dingy little car. Rental car, might I add. I’m 99% sure the guy I rented from had been eaten by then. I fumbled in my jeans pocket for my keys, and of course the little shits had to slip out of my hand. God fucking damn it, Matt, why can’t you do anything right?

Here comes another excruciating lap of the parking lot. The zombies aren’t as close to me as they were before, and you can thank rule number one for that one.

There’s the car again. On the inside of the door I could barely see that it was unlocked. “Of course,” I sighed to myself, scooping up the keys. Those zombies from before were way behind now. One kinda looked like a fucked up DJ, and the other… I’d say an equally fucked up version of Sting. Not looking too crash-hot. Then I realised I was fucking staring at them as they stumbled and staggered towards me, and I needed to floor it out of there, _fast._

In the car. I buckled my seatbelt and slammed my foot on the gas, cruising to the other side of the parking lot, heart thundering in my chest. Not fun.

You’d only hope to be safe in your own car. A grisly, low groan rumbled from the backseat, and in the rearview mirror I caught a glimpse of a new foe. This next bit would only have been risky if I wasn’t strapped in.

I headed right for some tiny little shop (swerving like a maniac in the process - you can’t really drive smoothly with a zombie trying to grab at your shoulders), slamming the brakes as I rammed into the wall. 

The zombie shot straight through the car’s windshield like a bullet, only to bore through the shop’s window and get a nice faceful of shattered glass. Car accidents can save your life in Zombieland, ironically. Wear your seatbelt.

I sighed again, only too see him clambering out to the windshield like I was fresh water in a desert. “Mother _fucker_.”

_Bam!_

Shot him through the human-sized opening in the glass. He rolls off the bonnet, which leads me to my second rule: the double tap.

In those moments when you’re not sure the undead are really _dead_ dead, don’t get all stingy with your bullets. I mean, one more clean shot to the head, and you can avoid becoming a human Happy Meal.

Out of the car, and my job is to get a second shot in before the son of a bitch gets too close for comfort.

_Bam!_

In the head. To put it lightly, it was like watching a watermelon explode. Goodnight, friend.

I got one last, shaky sigh out before getting in the car again.


	2. Chapter 2

One rule I reckon a _lot_ of people could use is travel light. While trying to get away from a mass of zombies, the last thing you want is to be heaving luggage around. If you’re ever caught by one of ‘em, you can make a run for it while still having all your stuff. Works for me.

To paint the picture, I’m walking up a road, shotgun over my shoulder, suitcase trudging along the asphalt, and there’s cars broken down in the lanes. It looks like some video game type of shit, but I can assure you that it wasn’t any more real than almost getting ‘the bite’. The smell of blood is gonna haunt me forever.

Then in the corner of my eye, I spotted it.

Some blacked out Cadillac truck pulled up to the road I was walking along, and at first I was glad I wasn’t the only human out here. 

The truck stopped. 

I backed up and stood awkwardly at some broken car close to this new one, and as soon as the driver’s side door opened, I felt fluttering in my stomach. Y’know, the kind of fluttery feeling you get when you’re paranoid that a stranger might kill you. 

Out came a taller, bulkier man, short dark hair, brimmed hat (classic Western kinda stuff) and sunglasses on. Leather jacket. Dark jeans that looked like they were choking his legs. The man took the sunglasses off and tucked ‘em into his shirt collar, and he just knew the silent treatment was giving me chills. His cold, hard stare screamed “do not fuck with me” or something. Just intimidating. 

Then I saw the spiked baseball bat. Over one shoulder. And the pistol in the other hand. Saying I was screwed would be sugar coating it - I was _majorly screwed._ A shotgun wouldn't get me out of shit.

I shouldn’t have done this, but I pointed my gun right at him. I think he noticed how shaky my hands were - a small smirk crept onto his face. Look, I just wanted to stand my ground as someone that was (somewhat) threatening, but instead he probably thinks I’m a Teletubby with a shotgun.

"Look, kid," The man's voice sounded... different to what I expected. Low, gruff, also English. In a sense, kinda like mine, except when I talk it's like someone smashed their keyboard a couple times and put it into a text-to-speech program. His tone stood taller than my unintelligible squeaking. He raised the pistol, "I'm not about to murder some chump out here for the fun of it, so you better give me a good reason not to."

I tilted my head in confusion. I swear to you, I was ready to get into a gunfight with god damn Indiana Jones over here.

"I-I don't wanna-"

He cut me off, "Can’t hear you. Speak up.”

I already knew I did not like his character. We're already pointing guns at each other. I cleared my throat and said, as confidently as I could, "I don't want to kill anyone either." I then held my thumb out to my side and lowered the gun. All I hoped for was that he wasn't as paranoid about people as I was.

The man sighed. You know the one, the "I really can't believe I'm about to do or say this" kinda sigh. He grumbled, "Just get in the car."

...

The truck reeked of tobacco and alcohol. Then I saw the half-empty bottle of Absolut and a box of cigs jammed into the cup holder. Unsurprising.

I made a quick inspection of the back seat, because, well, you literally never know when _they_ will strike. It was all firearms and weaponry that was as intimidating as he was. The man noticed this - the way he let me know was probably the most belittling statement I'd ever heard.

"Make-a-Wish aren't gonna be here with the Foo Fighters, kid," He opened the glovebox and pulled out a shot glass. 

I hissed, "Don't call me 'kid'."

He snickered. "You're as tall as one."

"...What's your name, by the way?" I asked, trying to come off as casual as possible. He didn't strike me as a small talk-kinda guy, but hey, I didn't have many options.

"I don't do names." So far, he ticked every box on my "gruff, hostile, badass tall guy in a leather jacket" checklist.

"Then where are you headed?"

"Las Vegas. It's home for me."

My heart skipped a beat. I'm hoping you remembered what I said about that place at the very fucking start. I mumbled, "Los Angeles is where I would've _wanted_ to go, so that's my home, I guess." Hometowns as names seemed pretty cute. Easy to remember. "I-I'm not from here."

And here's a friendly reminder that I came here for a holiday. 

"The suitcase gave you away," he chuckled - I guess I'm calling him _Vegas_ now, "I moved here almost a decade ago. I suppose you could say I've settled in well." Boy, was I glad I was peeling back the layers with this dude, because if it wasn't for my social skills, my head would be adorning the roof of his truck.


	3. Chapter 3

Now we're at the automatic doors of a supermarket, guns readied (he wielded the spiked bat too, but shush), eager to snatch up whatever we could get our hands on. Turns out be wasn't new to the ass-kicking business, either, and managed to tell me about, uh... some stories. 

The doors opened, and the first thing I saw was a trashed mess. Shelves knocked over, aisles with items on the floor, boxes and blood everywhere. Vegas elbowed me, "I'll check for zombies. Get some food." He stormed off and disappeared into the chaos.

I made a beeline to the frozen foods. You can't be in the middle of a zombie apocalypse without a box of Cornettos. It was relaxing to just scoop up snacks and drinks, but when I remembered Vegas, I was ready to see him painted red. Every so often I'd hear his shouts and grumbles, followed by whacks, thuds, splattering and the angry, hostile growls from zombies. I could not even imagine being that fearless - I'm like a hedgehog and he is subpar to Godzilla, if you catch my drift.

And there he was. Just as I'd expected, too - his hands and weapons were drenched in blood, making my brain immediately think he gutted them or something. Vegas said, "I swear I won't ditch you like that every time. You've got the guts of a scared puppy, I can't risk that." At least he was comparing me to a cute little dog and not Gizmo or something. 

"I-It's fine. I got a few things while you took care of them." _A few_ wasn't even close. I was cradling so many boxes and bottles that my arms would've given way any second. “Should we check the store room too...?” 

He was already walking towards the back of the supermarket. I saw that the emergency exit door was opened, and that’s when I started to get a little, um... nervous. Zombies wouldn’t open that.

Vegas motioned for me to follow him, and to avoid getting turned into a human kebab, I did. And would you look at that, _the store room doors are open as well!_ I was growing more and more suspicious, yet, I bet if I told him I was, he’d call me a pussy. It’s not like he’s paraphrased saying it already.

The store room was... scary. Dimly lit, long corridor. Fucking huge shelves on either side, and at the very end, a table. Like we were walking right into something from my nightmares.

Of course, Vegas was the one to start moving first, but I had the sneaking suspicion that we were being watched. I didn’t hear any zombies or smell any blood. Felt like whoever it was.. was right behind us... 

_Christ, Matt, you have as much guts as a dead tree,_ I thought, and the voice in my head was right. 

We made it to the table. Placed our weapons down on it.

The air got thinner. Harder to breathe. 

White noise.

I wanted to run all the way back to the entrance and get the fuck out. Wanted it so bad. 

_C’mon, someone, anyone_ \- pleading in my head, over and over...

Oh, there’s someone.

It’s not a human. 

It’s a fucking French bulldog. Cute little thing, black and white, ears perked up. It made a run towards my legs, and naturally I was gonna crouch down and pet the thing. Even Vegas didn’t hesitate to shower it with love. It’s on its back getting as many tummy rubs and cute names as it can handle, and I had to admit, it was beyond comforting to see something not covered in blood or zombified.

But why was it... _Never mind that, Matt, you’re giving a dog some love, just shut up._

I heard the creak of a door and instantly looked up to see the exit door... open. Light pouring in.

Boy fucking howdy, and our weapons were gone as well! Can’t believe this. Definitely can’t.

The dog made a break for it and dashed through the door. 

On the outside, I caught a glimpse of _our car_ driving away. Possibly forever, I can’t trust anyone at all out here.

Vegas howled, "My _weapons!_ My precious weapons, my drinks..." He fell to his knees and punched the floor. "I can't _fuckin’_ believe this-“

And neither could I.


End file.
